


i don't want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness

by derogatory



Category: Warchild Series - Karin Lowachee
Genre: Age Difference, Bodyguard Romance, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intercrural Sex, Loyalty, M/M, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derogatory/pseuds/derogatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Girls in middle school used to ask if Sid was his boyfriend.</p><p>Ryan had laughed. "Please. Sid's like, a bajillion years old."</p><p>"Hey," Sid had said. "I don't turn bajillion until next year."</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [todd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/todd/gifts).



> happiest of birthdays to the greatest friend and the best beta in the world!!! sorry I made you beta your own present. and that its 7 months late. 
> 
> In my defense, i added porn.

Girls in middle school used to ask if Sid was his boyfriend.

Ryan had laughed. "Please. Sid's like, a bajillion years old."

"Hey," Sid had said. "I don't turn bajillion until next year."

Years go by and Ryan grows up, taller and broader. He surrounds himself with men who are tall in ways that photograph well, feminine women with delicate faces and big, studious eyes. Unlike the military there's no unified front of the rich and famous, beyond reckless spending and illicit dealing. There's an Austro uniform, dripping with pearls and gold rings, shinier than a military press.

It's more alien to Sid than strits, more distant than EarthHub through the viewing windows of the transport carrier, shrinking from view. 

And that was what he had wanted; to leave. To separate and break free from the uphill climb of dying and killing for nothing. To wrestle out of its stranglehold and escape to a legitimate purpose, a quantifiable goal: Keep Ryan Azarcon alive.

Years go by and Ryan grows up, and Sid has to amend that goal. Keep Ryan Azarcon alive to live in a world that has nothing to do with Sid. Keep Ryan Azarcon alive, but in the same clinical way someone defuses a bomb. Keep Ryan Azarcon alive, even if he'd rather not be.

  


* * *

  


In Riyadh, during his first tour, a grenade tore Sergeant Alfaro apart. There were only pieces where a person had been. The sand between them went so bloody it turned to mud, a coppery slosh Sid scrambled through, ringing in his ears. It wasn't his first dead body, or even the first one he knew well. It was just a person who wasn't a person anymore. A person that had transformed into an empty collection of body parts that Sid had the misfortune of seeing before anybody else.

He saw a lot more bodies after that. And later, when he thought those blood-soaked deserts were behind him, he saw more at the Embassy, smears on pavement instead of sand. Next was Ryan's body in London, empty but not dead yet. Again, Sid was the one to find it before anybody else. Each time it was his job and his failure. Because the military and Ryan's family paid him to be paranoid, but Sid was only looking for threats on the outside.

The hospital staff was smart enough not to leave them in the public waiting area. We have to keep this out of the press, Sid remembers someone saying to the nurse. It might have been the Admiral. Or maybe he'd said it, remembering Song, her words and concerns through his mouth. The room is closed and quiet and the minute hand drags.

"This isn't your fault, Tim," Dr. Ramcharan says, and he looks at her like she stopped speaking Majority. 

She takes his hand in hers. Her hands are worn and skilled. Under her grip he can tell his hands are cold, just like Ryan had been.

Sid remembers standing in the glare of the desert, under the layers of protection from sun and bullets, and thinking there's no way he could feel cold again. Red sand between his fingertips, Alfaro at his feet. The sergeant had blown the explosive in his hands on purpose. Ryan's skin was ice under his fingertips. 

Sid makes too many mistakes, looking for threats on the outside.

 

  


* * *

  


Even with the Admiral and Dr. Grandma safe, Ryan can't relax. 

He used to pace the length of their hotel room, bordering other rooms full of refugees displaced from the Embassy. Ryan didn't think it was right that he and Sid were there, taking up space that should be for the diplomats and consular officers whose lives had been blown apart on the evening news. Sid offered to look into other hotels, ones farther from the blown-out Embassy, but Ryan balked at the suggestion. Because he wanted to run, to escape Hong Kong, but he was too frightened to leave the room. They were safe and trapped, couched in with other survivors. It reminded Sid of his first panic attack, stashed away in a med tent, shameful and secret, desperate to get back into the fight while simultaneously terrified by everything and nothing.

The Admiral remained in Hong Kong as well, but his focus was on the immediate fallout of the bombing. He commed twice daily— once when the sun rose and again when it set— because he thought the routine of his check-ins would comfort Ryan. They calls worked, for the few minutes they spoke, and then Sid watched Ryan unravel over the course of the next eight hours, until the next call. 

Staying in Hong Kong quickly stopped being an option. The initial idea had been that they would keep Ryan close and get him sorted out out on the trip back, backtracking through Asia and Europe, but London screwed that plan to hell. 

After Spring Break bled into a missed semester of Ryan's recovery, of therapists and broken promises, Sid finally brings him back to classes, and to Shiri.

"She ended it," Ryan says, with the same unreadable coolness in his eyes that's lingered since the Embassy. Sid says he's sorry to hear that and Ryan needlessly lashes out. But he's been sore since his bodyguard removed the lock on the bathroom door.

In the years he's been employed, Sid has gotten used to counting on outside allies, building up support for Ryan. There were other guards on Austro, other support systems; Sid has never been without backup. It wasn't that he couldn't work alone, he was just more comfortable working inside a unit, being one appendage of a larger body. 

He counted Songlian among them; she was an ally and Ryan's mother, even if she always seemed to have one foot in her office and one eye on the Send. She accepted Sid to protect Ryan, and hoped for them to be partners and for Sid to be there for her in the kinds of ways Cairo couldn't— or wouldn't, she would say. It seems dirtier now, after the other responsibilities Sid took from her husband. And Ryan had some friends in college who sent a few comms in the beginning, but by London their lines had all gone silent. 

Shiri was another ally, but she ended it. 

The apartment in D.C is supposed to be familiar and safe, but it haunts Ryan all the same, stranded with dread. He used to refuse to be alone, but now he demands it and Sid isn't comfortable leaving him. 

"You lost that right," he snaps during one particularly stiff argument. Ryan opens his mouth, closes it, and double checks the liquor cabinet Sid had emptied on their return. Ryan lost a lot of rights after London.

After Ryan misses half of his midterms and fails the others, Sid makes an executive decision and buys a pair of plane tickets to Texas. If Shiri had still been in the picture, he would've bought one for her too. But even before the breakup she'd always been too busy with volunteer work to join them on camping trips or vacations abroad. Folding clothes into a suitcase, Sid wonders what needier causes she could have now. 

  


* * *

  


The last time Sid was home was before he left for space training. It was a short visit, a stop-over before he launched out of Houston. Going back home was supposed to be a relief, but in the wake of so many bloody tours, not much was. Anxiety dogged his heels from every front line.

Even if she had been the one who orchestrated this whole deal, using her connections to Admiral Ashrafi to Sid's advantage and his transfer from Marine to bodyguard, Ann was skeptical. 

"It might not be the best fit," his mother had said, hours prior to liftoff. "Kids were never your specialty."

"I don't know," Sid said, ruffling Maverick's fur. "Can't be harder than killing."

He couldn't tell if she frowned at him out of disagreement or disappointment.

"At least they'll pay you to be paranoid," she said. "Since you're already doing it for free." She hugged him with tight, formal affection.

Now, he steps into that house in Texas and feels pounds lighter than when he left. Or maybe those memories are too far away to have any weight. Ryan's steps are heavier behind him.

"Your mom's nice," he says the night after their arrival, glancing at the dark house over his shoulder. When the sun set, Sid sets up a bonfire in the pit in the backyard and lets the mosquitoes eat them alive. It's like camping in Virginia, only hotter, and without Ryan constantly checking his comm for messages from Shiri. This time his mobile is on silent, sadness shadowing his young face by the fire.

"You should've met her before she retired," Sid replies. "She was as bad as your mom after Perry scuffed the floors." Ryan smiles at that, but it's rusty.

Song's not necessarily a safe topic between them, but still, he ekes forward.

"Your mother has a lot of faith in you." _In us_ , is the silent addendum.

Ryan doesn't look up, jabbing a stick into the soot. "She doesn't know shit about me." _About us._

"Whose fault is that?" Sid counters, and he's momentarily unsure who he's arguing with. Ryan is happy to remind him.

"Look," he hisses, hands flying to the front of his sweatshirt and fussing with the drawstrings. The name of Ryan's university stands out against his skin, letters peeking between his fingers. "I get you're always on her side, but can you just. I don't know, pretend for a second?"

When the Embassy in Hong Kong blew, suddenly Ryan was gone, racing through the crowd in a blind panic towards the destruction. In that moment, Sid was where Ryan left him and miles away. There was only one explosion but Sid heard dozens more, thin pops over his head while the city melted away. He got to the scene late, tugging Ryan from the glare of the cameras and smoke. It barreled over them in waves and in rumbling aftershocks. In thoughts that said; You went to space to escape this. You got a new life to rewrite over the years you gave to war. Even in the incense-heavy streets of Hong Kong, conflict dogs Sid's steps and rips flesh out of the kids around him.

And now it's Ryan who's broken open, his own trauma spilling out anywhere but with the shrink. 

The dog yawns at Ryan's feet and Sid wishes he could keep the teenager here like this. He's been slipping through his fingers since that explosion, and whenever he can catch Ryan, he's cold to the touch.

"I _am_ on your side," Sid argues softly.

"Everybody keeps saying I'll just get past it." Ryan's hands, always moving, busy themselves with his drink, fidgeting along the beer's neck. "How long is that supposed to take?"

He's staring at his bodyguard, waiting for an answer. _I'll let you know,_ Sid could say, with a self effacing smile. Or _We can find out together_ , and clamp a hand over Ryan's shoulder. _Forever_ , and drain the rest of his beer. 

But Sid doesn't say any of those things, and Ryan's gaze slants back to the fire, shoulders squared.

They spend another week in Texas, Ryan sleeping in Sid's childhood bedroom, before Song comms with an executive decision of her own: If you aren't going to go to school, you'll at least come home. 

  


* * *

  


The ride back to Austro is painful. Ryan's rattled, talking anxiously about the danger waiting for them on the station. Maybe he's disappointed the sun didn't burn off his survivor's guilt, that horseback riding and hard labor didn't untangle his stress. 

Ryan spirals endlessly over the what-if's.

"Don't think about that," Sid mutters, nursing a headache. He'd hoped to sleep through the transport.

Ryan clutches his knees. Sid put a hand over one of Ryan's while he reluctantly lists the ways someone could sabotage a station. He keeps his voice gentle and measured, peppering it with empty platitudes on how they're safe, and that there hasn't been on-station terrorism in Austro for years. Present him with the facts and let Ryan build his assumptions. He remembers this tactic from counseling, this need to play-through a worst case scenario in your own mind. It's detached and straight-forward and he's trying to forget how it never really worked.

"What about a bomb?" Ryan asks. 

Sid jerks out of his reach, refusing to answer anything else on the topic for the remainder of the flight.

"Some bodyguard you are," Ryan eventually spits and reaches for another drink.

Sid swats his hand away from the alcohol. 

"That's right. Bodyguard. I'm not your damn therapist. You can see another one on Austro if you're so set on predicting another disaster."

The first thing Ryan does when they get back to Austro, his bags still unpacked, is insist on installing a door to his bedroom. With a lock. Sid agreed to keep London a secret, so he can't argue when Songlian tosses her hands in the air and concedes, open-chic aesthetic of _her_ home be damned. 

"I'll have a key," Sid warns, and gets the door shut an inch from his nose.

  


* * *

  


Eventually Sid stopped telling the therapist about his flashbacks. There was no point to it, anyway. She had the same advice the last one had; _Open your eyes. Look around. Take note of where you really are. Do something relaxing. Tell yourself what you're feeling is normal._ But nothing about the aftermath of war feels normal. How is he supposed to relax when it feels like he's still in that blood soaked sand? Crouched in ruined buildings for hours, waiting for backup, shooting from every window to make it look like he's more than one soldier. His mind lingers on heavy weights over his body, suddenly warm with blood when Sid draws his gun faster than they can bring down a knife. 

He's not there anymore, but parts of him are. Discarded limbs.

The doctors want him to believe they're not real feelings, that they're just memories of feelings. That he isn't in any danger, he's just remembering it. What makes him freeze up and black out is a harmless echo. It's normal. It's something that survivors of trauma push past every day, he has to give it time.

Bullshit.

He stopped seeing the therapists; he didn't think it was fair for the military to pay for fifty minutes of arguing, twice a week. And it's hard convincing Ryan to keep up with something he quit himself. 

Maybe there are things people can't get past.

"I don't believe that," Song says, voice clipped and dismissive. She wants to know why Ryan is still acting out; Hong Kong was weeks ago. "You shouldn't either. I didn't take you for a quitter."

And in the dark where the distance between them seems farther than her and her absentee husband, Sid wonders what Songlian Lau does take him for. 

She inches forward and slides her arms over his shoulders, the point of her chin at his neck. It's a conciliatory gesture, she'll drop the subject for his benefit. But never an apology, never offering her understanding. 

This is what she takes you for, he thinks, and kisses her wrists.

  


* * *

  


Suddenly awake, Sid lies cold and still. Something had made a noise, louder and clearer than a dream. 

He lays in bed and listens for it again, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He hasn't slept in his own room for some time, and now its shadows seem harder than the lines in Song's bedroom. The station noise seems harsher without the soft cadence of her breathing next to him. Space training and years spent in this floating tin can haven't been enough to acclimate him to the white noise of station living.

Ryan felt differently; he said he never could get used to the way EarthHub wouldn't shut up. But he hadn't always complained. That first night in their apartment, he ran to the window to watch ambulatory pods streak by. Sid watched the bi-colored light flare across his face. Ryan had been newly independent then, college fresh.

By the end of the week, Ryan had asked how much it would cost to buy a minute of D.C.'s silence. 

Here in orbit, stations were quieter, but not quiet, not to Sid. Ryan had been born in it so tuning out the sound of a regulator kicking on and off came naturally to him. He grew up never knowing anything else; the ambient noise was natural. But not natural to Sid. If enough regulators go down, all of Austro could suffocate. If the filters aren't regularly maintained, there could be widespread carbon monoxide poisoning. These are all the things an errant hiss and click could signal; death by negligence. All the things he told Ryan on the flight home. There were more active ways to kill a station.

But those would have been louder, so what he heard wasn't those.

Whatever it was, Sid doesn't heard it again and he has two thoughts at once— _you imagined it_ and _what if it was a scream?_

Distantly, he knows that second thought is just lingering fear, a delayed reaction to the night's earlier events. It can take the body a few hours for fear to catch up to it, long after the adrenaline has faded and and the dust of a mission settles. Then you can smell the blood, taste the liquid thick fear in the air, even when the threat is long gone. Flashbacks and panic attacks aren't exactly timely, and even if it was hours ago, he can still feel Ryan pressed against his chest outside the flash house, his heartbeat fluttering with the terror Sid feels now.

It couldn't have been a scream. It might have been an electronic noise, a deep, systemic cry from the recesses of hardware. Maybe it was his comm. He sits up and checks it. Twice for good measure.

When he brushes sleep from his eyes, his hand comes back wet. Blood, he thrills, but it's not. Sid sits, tears on his face, and dimly remembers his dream, although now it feels like a bad memory. Ryan shaking, boxed in his arms. In the dream they were in the crowd outside the flash house, or maybe it had been the Embassy. There were people and then they were alone. Ryan turned his mouth against Sid's skin, lower, and swallowed—

The sound is back, wet and low, from his own throat.

"Shit," Sid breathes. His comm lights up with new intel on the shooter.

  


* * *

  


It happens again on _Macedon_ , many time, and Sid convinces himself it's because he misses Song. Because there have to be reasonable explanations for dreams like that. Explanations other than his immediate knee-jerk response, the crash of shame and perversion, because you knew him when he was a child, and now you think about fucking him? It's wrong and it's _sick_ —

It's only because Song is so far away, farther than when they were on EarthHub. Back the night before they left Austro for Ryan's school and Sid had the blindingly stupid idea to tell her he'd be faithful, but stopped himself when he realized how monumentally flawed it would be to say something like that. To promise fidelity in their infidelity. So they didn't discuss it, and gladly fell back into the habit of intimacy when he returned, while Ryan setup closed doors between himself and the rest of the house.

It's because she's so far away, and Ryan is so close. Because of course if the captain keeps cleaving distances between Sid and his son, Sid will find himself thinking about Ryan all the time. Which is perfectly normal. Ryan is his job, and he can count on one hand the times they've been apart over the past decade. He probably thought about Ryan constantly before now, and it's only in their forced separation that Sid started to notice it. And there's no point complaining because the captain _is_ Ryan's father, and for the lightyears between them, he is still Song's husband. Sid has zero claims or rights to that family and Cairo has been more than happy to remind him. 

So maybe it's jealousy, or habit, that he misses the kid. Only Ryan isn't a kid, and it stopped being just a job years ago. And there's a funny coil in his chest that doesn't let up until he sees Ryan again each shift.

Or maybe it's because he's on a carrier, thrown back into the pressure cooker of military living where it fries him from the inside out. His extended tours on EarthHub left him ragged, his thoughts incomprehensible. And now with Cairo's insistence he go through jet training and the stifling presence of command chasing his every movement again he's backslid into a whole new sort of trauma. Those were things that could send him spiraling backwards.

But it's probably just because he had the dumb idea to let Ryan stretch out over his bunk while they watched vids in his q. Now his dreams smell like Ryan's hair, and when he sleeps it feels like Ryan's head is tucked against Sid's cheek. 

In one of the dreams they're at the flash house and Ryan's tight against him. The only movements between them aren't powered by fear but baser, a twist of hips. In his dreams they're dancing. Then there's a shot and Ryan's dying in his arms, or it's Sid who takes the bullet, and they're covered in each other's blood and nothing else.

He's starting to miss dreams about war. At least their gore and mindless violence was familiar. He carried corpses over his shoulders and insurgent bodies pressed into him from below. He watched fire lick lasting lines over skin and frostbite kill muscles and rot flesh. There was a pattern to those nightmares. These new dreams are only terrible in the aftermath, when he's awake enough to feel guilty.

He does push-ups until the knot in his stomach unwinds. Sid steadies himself, the floor cold under his hands, and lets the dream eke out of him in in ragged breaths.

  


* * *

  


He's been on Azarcon's carrier long enough that the novelty of a marine among soljets has started to wear off, although there will always been the troublemakers who use the imaged rivalry between their positions to fluff their egos. He's gone deaf to most of their taunts, and even assholes like Sanchez are taking a hint. Sid has never made himself an easy mark, not in military school, not in the service, and he carries that even far into the Dragons of space, or wherever the hell they're supposed to be. So long as no one mentions Ryan in it, he doesn't have any business listening to catcalls and posturing bullshit. Cairo put him on these decks to punish him, and he's got a feeling it might not be completely undeserved.

Even if he can tune out most of the jeering, Corporal Dorr's drawl still raises the hair on the back of his neck.

"Sorry," Sid says, insincerely, turning to face the jet; he's got a friend with him. Dorr runs around with a solid wall of a buddy, hands done up in prison tats. He tries not to think about what other unsavory pasts _Macedon_ 's crew might be hiding.

"I don't have time to play right now." Sid answers their smirks with a flat look.

"Y'know," Dorr sneers around the cigret between his teeth. "When they jettison that pretty ass a' yours back to EarthHub, you'll regret not takin' me for a ride, mano."

His latest dreams snake through his mind, and Sid wonders if he should take Dorr up on that. Maybe it'll get whatever this is out of his system. And it isn't like he hasn't done that kind of thing before; more men are Marines than women, and even if it's a shit coping method, in the field it's always an arm's reach away. So in the immediate aftermath of the dreams about Ryan, bedding the Corporal feels halfway appealing. But in the sobering wakeshift, after a shower and breakfast in the mess hall, Dorr's come-ons sound more like threats. 

Even if he didn't promise out loud to stay faithful to her, he clings to it. Partially out of guilt, partially because someone has to in this family.

But mostly it's the naked affection on Ryan's face when he spots Sid across the mess. Screwing someone else seems like a betrayal, but he betrayed Ryan years ago, sharing a glass of wine with his mother. How much more damage could a few dreams do?

  


* * *

  


"We can't ask Ryan to do this again." The words fall out of his mouth before Sid really considers them. The projection of Songlian's face is a glassy cool exterior, studied in its stillness. "It's. Not smart."

"I know," she says. "But I'm happy he did."

He closes the comm reluctantly, watching the afterimage burn and dissipate. Relief clutches his heart so tightly it aches, and the pain beneath his sternum feels final, the thrill fading like her image. 

In the fresh silence, the sound of Ryan's guitar floats to him from the other room. Sid follows the lilting sound, picturing Ryan seated on the bunk, plucking at the strings. He ought to go in there and thank him. Blindingly quick another idea is over him, like a flashback but worse, more insidious, the other ways Sid could thank Ryan. They're vivid flashes of fingers on skin, of teeth and tongues and a pressure building between them—

Sid snaps back to the present, moving so suddenly he knocks the comp to the floor. The guitar stops, momentarily. He can tell Ryan's listening to see if their conversation is finished. He probably couldn't bear to eavesdrop, and the guitar had just been to drown out their soft voices. What other reason could there be? Ryan's wouldn't usually play so close to other people. Sid doesn't understand what Ryan has to be shy about, he's talented, even if he never really kept up with his lessons. 

This is a stupid, distracting train of thought, his mind sneers. You were just imagining going in there and screwing him. Ryan just used his personal comm connection to let you call his mother, to give you the opportunity to speak to her behind his father's back, and you were imagining going into that room and putting hands on her son. 

Sweat drips down his neck. You are so deceptive.

Sid drums his fingers against his knees, waiting for the guilt to wear off and considering another round of push-ups. 

Ryan stops playing abruptly when the door opens.

"Sounds good," Sid says on habit and, similarly trained, Ryan casts him a warning look. He slides the guitar back into its case but doesn't stand. "Thank you," Sid adds. 

Ryan shrugs with one shoulder. "Yeah. If you got any juices or whatever on the screen, just wipe 'em off." 

He frowns. "Ryan." But maybe he deserves that. Again, although somewhat more reluctantly, "Thank you." 

Sid shifts uncomfortably while he tries to drown lingering thoughts of other ways he could've shown his gratitude.

  


* * *

  


( He presses his face into her shoulder and her fingers trail along the nape of his neck. Song's breath hitches when his lips touch her soft skin. Affection blossoms in his chest, seeping through every exhausted muscle and blown-out nerve. 

He went to space to get away, and next to her, the planet he left is a distant pinprick of a star. He lifts his head to watch her watching him and wonders if the war was ever real. )

  


* * *

  


The captain and Ryan's grief for Song is open and public, soon to be under meedee scrutiny. Sid's is silent and selfish. It's private but just barely; he holds it back with a concerted effort that consumes his every move. 

That preoccupation has to be the reason why Yuri was able to take Ryan out from under him. 

  


* * *

  


Ryan looks so small in the hospital bed, surrounded by sheets as white as the glare from his mother's coffin.

The sedatives will wear off by the end of the shift and, with some swearing and glowering, Cairo left for the bridge to see if there was any amount of damage control he could do. The doctors assured the captain he would be informed the second Ryan wakes up. Possibly because he's preoccupied, or maybe because he took sympathy on Sid for his concussion (unlikely), Azarcon didn't tell Sid to leave. 

Sid holds Ryan's wrist in one hand, running his thumb over its pulse point. It's slow and relaxed. Two things Ryan hasn't been in a long time. He thinks about this hand, stiff and nervous, reaching out to scratch Sid's family dog under the chin. Maverick took to him instantly, following Ryan up and down the stairs despite his arthritis. 

"Mom would never let us get one," Ryan had mourned, petting behind the dog's ears. "They'd be worse on the floors than Perry."

"'Us?'" Sid repeated, laughing at the flush that tinged Ryan to his ears. _Us_ , his body thrills, pathetically glad for the family he's stitched himself into.

Mercurio re-enters and Sid jerks his hand back to his side. The doctor doesn't seem to notice, leaning over the monitors without casting the bodyguard a second look. Sid wills his heartbeat slower, as if he's the one hooked up to the registers. 

He didn't have to pull away. It wasn't something shameful, holding Ryan like that. It was a natural, comforting gesture. It was as simple as catching Ryan by the back of the shirt before he stepped out into traffic or smoothing his hair down over his forehead. In the sterile whiteness of the room Sid wonders if those actions are even allowed anymore, with his failures and his faults. His feelings that sink below his stomach when he sees the muscles along Ryan's back, when he feels the heat from Ryan's skin when he stands too close.

Sid keeps his hands to himself and thinks of the dying body the stretcher carried onto _Macedon_ , of the burnt edges to Ryan's eyes, his chest bloody and winched shut by emergency clamps, as if his insides might all fall out otherwise. 

He buries the heels of his palms against his eyes, shudders.

"Get some rest, Corporal," the doctor says, like they've all said for years. Sid's hands ache until he can take Ryan's in his again.

  


* * *

  


It's possible the intensity in Ryan's stare is an aftereffect of the bot knitters' work. His eyes' bluebell quality has dimmed after the procedure, with the bruising lingering for another few shift weeks. Sid tries not to look at them too directly because the jets already stare. Ryan was never one for scrutiny, and want rises in Sid's chest when his gaze lingers too long.

Instead he looks elsewhere when Ryan talks about his plans for his inheritance. That kind of money could improve the lives of so many refugees, keep them from falling into the hands of pirates like Yuri did. Sid doesn't bother hiding his distaste. The pirate's been off ship for weeks and Ryan talks about him like he's still in the brig, paying Yuri shiftly visits for God knows why. Sid's happy Kirov is going to rot in a cell where he can die alone and frightened, just like he'd left Ryan.

Ryan has such high hopes for the good his mother's money can do, for his father's plans for peace and dismantling Falcone's hold on the universe. Ryan's hopes are lofty and kind, and Sid isn't sure when's the last time he saw his gaze so determined. After the first date he went on with Shiri, maybe. 

He thinks something selfish every time Ryan stares back at him with that same look.

  


* * *

  


Sid isn't sure how the captain would have sold Ryan on his visit to Aaian-na even if he had tried. There are too many deal-breakers for it to ever be a plan Ryan would support. It hasn't been a calendar year since Song died, but peace talks don't wait for grieving, although they did pause for kidnapped sons. So Cairo never bothered explaining, only gave his son a shift notice and then left with his team.

Sid leans his arms on the railing, peering down through the grates. 

"I thought I'd find you here," he calls. Ryan blinks up at him from his spot on the stairwell. "Where's your buddy?"

D'Silva and Ryan are fast friends, like how Ryan picked up with that rat, Tyler. There are similarities, unfortunately, and Sid isn't against sending another false friend to prison if this one tries to screw Ryan over too. 

Ryan's friendship with Tyler had been a relic from when he was younger, a partnership the two continued long after they had anything in common with each other. Sid's happy it was dealt with eventually, but it was a mess he should have caught earlier. He should have never encouraged Ryan to seek out old friends after their return to Austro. Tyler was a sailhead and now Ryan's fallen in with a pirate, but at least Sid can't claim any responsibility for pushing him and D'Silva together.

But beyond questionable backgrounds, the resemblances thin out. Because Evan is similarly cocky but open and easy— in his line of work, Sid guesses he'd have to be. That sort of person suits Ryan, someone honest and clever; even if Evan is a far cry from someone as wholesome as Shiri.

Ryan watches his descent. "Evan snuck onto their charger to Aaian-na."

Sid thinks all these optimistic things about Evan, and then shit like this happens. Or he'll see D'Silva in the corners, his skinny body pressed flush against some soljet's, and Sid wonders if his initial suspicions weren't completely unwarranted. Everyone's a threat to Ryan one way or another. 

_Even you_ , chimes his subconscious. 

"Your dad's gonna love that," he says, sliding down next to Ryan. His knees protest immediately and Sid is acutely aware of the age between them.

The captain's not necessarily a safe topic between them, but still, he ekes forward.

"They're just peace talks." He eyes the way Ryan worries at his lip, his sagging shoulders. "They're not in any danger."

"If there's no danger, why not take me?" Ryan's petulance is lightning fast.

Sid's eyebrows shoot upwards. 

"You itching to get on a planet full of aliens?" He bumps a shoulder against Ryan's. "I know you're scared." _Don't_ , Ryan's eyes flash and Sid ignores it. "But Dorr and Musey are with him. They'll bring your dad home safe."

He waits for Ryan's bad attitude to return, for him to push against Sid's comfort and shield himself in layers of pessimism and misery. But that might have been the Ryan on EarthHub, or on Austro. This Ryan, here on his father's ship, has come so far. 

Ryan leans into Sid's touch. 

His stomach clenches. Before something like this would come to him in flashes like the dreams, like the panic, but now they're grounded in how warm Ryan is. He hasn't thought about Ryan on the bathroom floor in London in months, hasn't thought about his icy skin under Sid's desperate grip. Now, feeling the heat from Ryan seep through his skin, the war seems less than unreal, it feels like it never happened to him at all. Like the carrion limbs and rotting survivors were a part of someone else's life. That instead this life has just been him alongside Ryan Azarcon with a legitimate purpose, a quantifiable goal. His failures still linger around them, but they've been replacing older fears. 

Maybe there are things people can get past.

"I know," Ryan says, voice sullen, mouth downturned and Sid distracts himself by reciting the captain's mission details. Until he's sure Ryan hadn't tried to lean in just then, that he'd only imagined it.

  


* * *

  


Several shifts later, his comm goes off in the dead of a sleep shift. At least it wasn't him making the noise this time.

On the other end of the line there's nothing but soft breathing. And then, "Hey."

"Ryan," Sid says, his own voice heavy with sleep and mounting dread. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah," he mumbles, and adds with a sigh, "I dunno."

Sid groans, easing his legs over the side of the bed. These quiet sighs of Ryan's are familiar, although they're unlike the ways they sounded in his dreams. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" he retorts too quickly, meaning 'Yes, a little.' Sid gropes around the floor for his shoes, careful not to wake the other jets they've got bunking in his quarters.

"Don't," Ryan says as soon as the hatch to his room opens. 

Sid lets himself in and his expression creases into a frown. There's a well loved bottle of clear alcohol on the table.

"Where'd you even get that?" He points. 

"I won it." Ryan shrugs as Sid's gaze slides to him. He twists under the examination, voice thick. "Yeah, all right. Cleary won it."

"I'm glad you're making friends," Sid replies, picking up the bottle on his way to the couch. Cairo had let his son have one of the Diplomatic rooms, given that they won't be entertaining many now that _Macedon_ 's gone rogue. Sid's quarters have him sardined like a cadet with five trauma-scarred _Archangel_ refugees, but Azarcons get the plush living all to themselves, as always. There's enough room in Ryan's new quarters for a bodyguard, but Cairo probably still keeps them apart out of spite. 

Or protection, his mind nags.

"So what am I doing here?" he asks, fighting the concern from his voice. When Ryan's in a mood, he's an animal spooked by a thunderstorm. He's seen it with horses, they read the fear in the humans they trust and respond to it, any concern tossed their way ratcheting their panic up a few more degrees. He has to be calm and easy around Ryan when he's like this. Maybe Ryan reads it as indifference, but that kind of medicine is what the kid needs more than the liquor. 

Sid stretches out, taking a precautionary sniff from the bottle.

"You tell me." Ryan shoots his bodyguard a stubborn stare. He's evidently drunk enough to be difficult. Guess some things are harder to change even with the change in scenery.

The peace talks are going well, as far as Sid knows. He hears from some sargeant on the bridge the details about the Warboy's meetings with the other striv tribes, or whatever they're called. Sid was never particularly gifted when to came to human-striv relations, and he's grateful Ryan's newfound altruism is focused more universally inwards. 

Instead of drinking, Ryan could be working on his cause for the refugee camps. Or he could be sending a comm to Shiri, since Sid's seen enough communication between them to know that bridge has seen some repairs. And that's for the best. Shiri's kind and hopeful and apparently contrite about breaking it off. He tries not to think about how her new career benefits from close ties with Ryan, the prospect of another Tyler Coe lurking. Shiri and Ryan together again is good. 

There's a pit in his stomach that is probably a work-appropriate worry, and not at all from jealousy, or the dreams about Ryan that still haven't stopped.

Unsure, Sid starts to update Ryan on the situation on Aaian-na (decent momentum but slow moving, Warboy's not as popular abroad as Captain Azarcon might have hoped) before Ryan interrupts him,

"Don't." He's been saying that a lot. "I don't want you here for that."

A hum passes through Sid's muscles at the word 'want' but he shoves it aside, swallows hard. 

"So what, am I on garbage duty?" He shakes the empty bottle and Ryan rolls his eyes, taking it from him. Sid watches as he sets it aside, taking a seat next to his bodyguard.

It's the moment before someone steps on an IED, that thick suspense hanging between two people in arms who are slouching toward death. The breathless pause before a disaster. It's as vivid as a bad memory and Sid thinks he's having a flashback when Ryan leans in. Ryan's eyes close too early and he half misses Sid's lips with his own, pressing his mouth instead to Sid's upper lip. It's the explosions in Hong Kong, his worst dreams come true and barrelling into reality. Only those dreams weren't followed up by Ryan's mouth against his, body going liquid against his own. Not at first anyway.

Sid keeps his body motionless, arms bolted to his sides until Ryan's hands slide against his thighs.

"Hey," he gasps, grabbing his shoulders, hoisting Ryan an arm's length away, a safe distance. 

Ryan's stare is irritable and inconvenienced, but not as intoxicated as Sid had expected. 

"What the hell was that?" Sids asks, wonderingly.

Ryan manages a short sob of a laugh, a hand raking through his hair. The sound of it tears through him.

"What do you think?" he snaps. Sid has no idea what to think. His mouth is too dry to formulate a response right away, so Ryan continues, "That was really," he stops, chewing over his choice of words carefully, "Embarrassing." 

Sid wasn't aware he had been holding his breath, but it rushes out of him all at once in a swift, final exhale.

"Ryan," he manages when he's sure his voice is somewhere close to even, "We can't. It's. Not smart." Dimly, Sid knows he used this logic before. It didn't work then, and registered the same look of frustration on Song as it does now on her son.

"Yeah, thanks, I got it." Ryan's expression twists. "Can we not do this?" To which Sid completely agrees, is already backing off, except now Ryan is following him. He's suddenly not sure what it was Ryan was asking them not to do. 

He corners Sid against the arm of the couch.

"Okay, stop," Sid says. "I don't know why you're doing this but. This is— There's no way this is okay." Pinned by Ryan's closeness, he suddenly, desperately wishes for a flashback, for the floor to swallow him up into the waist high Siberian tundra, blood splattered over the snow and his gloves. All at once he's as cold as the northernmost tour and his body burns with the heat from Tel Aviv, but he can't escape into those memories anymore. Ryan's hands are on him.

"Sid," Ryan says, voice steadier than he expects given the liquor. Then, quietly, "I can't believe you're giving me that crap." He casts brief look to Sid's lips before he closes the distance between them again.

Everything is happening both in slow motion and too quickly. His skin feels electrified wherever Ryan touches him. Ryan's kisses are hot and wet and he has a hard time remembering enemy insurgents. That kind of coping method was pretty messed up to begin with, Sid thinks, a few years too late.

Ryan pants against his mouth, kissing with more enthusiasm than skill. He balls a fist into the front of Sid's shirt and his whole body jumps when Sid's lips chance opens, letting Ryan's tongue slip inside. He's making a mistake, they both are, and Sid needs to be the bigger person and stop before this goes too far. What kind of bodyguard would he be otherwise? The kind that's already slept with Ryan's mother, for one. That's what he is at best, and at worst he's a predator who waits for his charge to grow up, for another.

Ryan moans weakly when Sid pulls away, the sound going straight to his lap. He knows that sound from his dreams, and Ryan looks like he wants to make it again.

He cups a hand against Ryan's cheek, half to keep him from surprising him again, half to hold his stare.

"This is a bad idea," he says, thumb tracing a cheekbone.

Ryan nods as much as the grip over his face allows, and rests his hand over his. "I know," he mutters, "I have bad ideas all the time." He presses close, mouth coaxing Sid's to open again. Sid obeys, hands helplessly hovering over him. He could push him away, but Ryan's obviously determined to move right back in. He could touch him, brace his hands along Ryan's hips and keen their bodies together. Sid groans, curving his back into the couch instead. For so long touching Ryan was a dangerous thought, violently warm. The very real possibility of making those dreams into a reality hits like a gutshot.

"We shouldn't," Sid hears himself say. Ryan moves, his mouth latching onto the thin skin of Sid's neck. When was the last time someone left a mark on him like this? Military school? Ryan's so young, too young, and this is so much worse than the mistakes he made with Song. "Ryan—"

Ryan lifts his head.

"Don't." Ryan says, has been saying that. It sounds like an order.

The want in Ryan's eyes is ice water dripping down his spine.

When he palms Sid through his pants, Sid swears loud enough that Ryan stops, alarmed.

"What?" Ryan asks. And then, "I don't just want to make out."

"Yeah, I got that," he hisses, coaxing Ryan's hand away. "Just give me a second, all right?"

"I've given you lots of time," Ryan argues, looking extremely put out. Sid starts to point out that a few seconds between hickeys and handjobs don't count when realization bursts inside him, littering the space around them with shrapnel.

"How long?" He swallows back mounting dread. "How long did you know?" _That I liked you._ He can't say that part out loud. It seems more juvenile than the marks Ryan's probably left on his neck and, oh hell, he's never going to hear the end of it from Dorr.

Except Dorr's not on ship. Dorr and the Captain are gone. They're alone, with no one to answer to. It's as intoxicating as Song's late night murmur that no one will interrupt them, they're alone. Except there was always someone else in that bedroom, even if the Captain hadn't set foot on Austro for years. Song was Cairo's, never his.

"Seriously?" Ryan laughs, misunderstanding the question. "I've liked you forever."

And maybe Sid was always Ryan's.

Sid surges forward and Ryan's surprised shout melts into his mouth, body molding into the kiss. Sid's hands, too afraid to touch, too worried they'll give away these feelings, now roam freely over Ryan. They trace the curve of his spine through his clothes, then under. Ryan's shirt feels like an unnecessary formality, so they take it off. Sid's shirt follows and Ryan's hands drift from his shoulders to the muscled lines of his chest.

Ryan gasps as Sid's palms graze his bare skin and under the back of his waistband. Cupped in his palms, he's as warm as Sid imagined. When was he ever cold? Ryan shifts, settling into Sid's lap. London is stars away.

They're struggling for air, and their mouths separate momentarily.

"I don't just wanna make out," Ryan repeats, voice unsteady, but he makes up for it with determination.

Sid nods dumbly. Ryan's hands work at his belt.

"Maybe I can be on top?" Ryan says in a voice that sounds so bizarrely hopeful it snaps Sid to attention.

"What?" he asks on a thin breath. "Have you ever even done this before?" Ryan laughs. His mouth is overly pink, his eyes are too bright. Sid backtracks through the evening's events, doubling back on earlier arguments, "You were drinking."

"I'm not drunk."

"You've never done this before," Sid presses on as Ryan wraps arms around his shoulders.

"Sure I have." Between kisses. "I mean. Not with a guy."

Sid groans as Ryan bites his lip. "That's— ah— kind of a big distinction."

"Yeah, well. Have you?" Ryan pulls his face back to gauge his reaction. 

Sid thinks of the other times he was with a man, where the positions were physically similar but mentally different. His mind was never really present, probably no one's was when there were more battles approaching. A few hurried seconds of need and panic.

Sid nods.

Ryan's leg shifts, thigh pressing between Sid's legs. 

"Show me."

Warmth rolls in his stomach. Another command.

"I love you," he begins and feels Ryan start in his arms, limbs rigid with the force of the words. He doesn't take it back, it wasn't a mistake. It's more true than anything else he's told this family, and it would still be true even if they both weren't half-clothed and hard on a couch in his father's ship. It was true by the end of that first year on Austro. He loves this kid. Over time, the meaning of what kind of love had simply shifted.

"But, we're not doing that right away," Sid finishes and Ryan's surprise loosens into stubbornness.

"But you want to," Ryan says and rocks their hips together. Sid could stop him from doing that again. He doesn't, body responding in kind instead. "I want to." Ryan's eyes uncharacteristically darken.

"There's other things we can do." Sid eases Ryan backwards. One of Ryan's legs dips over the edge of the couch, socked foot against the deck floor. The other bends at the knee, pinned between Sid and the back of the sofa. Sid leans forward. The knee of Ryan's jeans is starting to fray. The jeans come off, but Sid hesitates at the last article of clothing that separates them. It's another formality, the final hurdle of a warm up, the first shots before the firefight really begins.

Ryan grumbles and hauls his boxers off himself, nearly kneeing Sid in the chin. He huffs, staring up at Sid, exposed and impatient.

"If I knew it was gonna take you this long, I'd have made a move a lot sooner."

"I wish you had," Sid replies warmly, and Ryan's blush stains all the way down his chest. The scar where Yuri shot him stays blanched, untouched by Sid's words.

Ryan must've seen it, the distance in Sid's eyes, the memories of Ryan's kidnapping creeping into him.

He takes Sid's hand and puts it between his legs.

"Oh." Ryan makes a surprised sound at the touch, even if he had been the one guiding it. Sid laughs and closes his fingers around Ryan. He's not looking at the scar anymore, or thinking about Kirov and his violence. He watches Ryan's eyes flutter closed, his arches after each stroke, chasing the motion. Sid's slacks press against him uncomfortably.

"You all right?" He asks when Ryan reaches over his head, one hand bracing against the couch arm while the other arm splays over his eyes. "I'm pretty sure you've done this before."

"Not for awhile." Ryan laughs. His body stutters as Sid turns his wrist. " _Fuck_. Not with you."

While his hand works, Sid thinks about Texas, about the warmth of the desert where he grew up. He thinks of the waves of humidity that rolled over Ryan when he first arrived in Texas, that open alarm.

It's suffocating, Ryan had complained, fanning himself by pulling at his shirt.

It's comforting, Sid had assured him.

The heat between them now laps in thick, comforting waves.

Sid turns his face to kiss the inside of Ryan's thigh.

"Take your pants off." Ryan orders weakly. He must be getting close.

"This is fine." It's not fine. He'll ruin these pants. Sid's not sure why he's arguing. Ryan's splayed out bare in front of him, skin flushed, arousal in his fist. This has gone too far already.

"You really need to make up your mind," Ryan hisses, and seizes up, reacting to the slightest swipe of Sid's thumb. He claws at the cushions, chest rising in frantic, desperate breaths as he ruts into the pressure of Sid's hand.

It doesn't feel real. It feels like a dream and soon there will be blood and regret and Sid will wake up wanting. But it doesn't change, the dream doesn't end or become a nightmare, and Ryan's still twisting, begging, saying that he loves him too, loves him, Sid, _please_ —

In the afterglow the room seems too quiet. Ryan stares at him with warm, blown out pupils, the gloss of past blindness be damned. Before, Sid wasn't he could meet that gaze if Ryan ever found out about his feelings. In all the possible ways that situation could have gone, he hadn't imagined himself staring back at Ryan, bodies warmed with friction.

Ryan twitches as Sid pulls his hand away to lean over him, pressing their lips together. Ryan murmurs softly into the kiss, an aimless, sated noise and Sid crashes headfirst against his limit. Like a live grenade was tossed between them.

He straightens up.

"I need to," Sid stops. Frantically, his hands work at his belt, peeling his pants down his thighs. "I need—" His own voice sounds strained by the ache below his waist.

Ryan nods, slow at first as he comes back to himself, and then with more urgently, "Yeah. Sure. Let me— There's lotion somewhere." His hands reach for the floor, searching until he retrieves a bottle. He presses it into Sid's hands. "You wanna do it, right?"

Sid says something, but he suddenly can't hear himself. It's hard to tell what either of them is saying over the static that consumes his thoughts in the moment where Ryan lifts his hips, hands cupping the backs of his knees. He's used to being on display, Sid thinks, and immediately regrets the thought. He could discard what few principles he has left and take Ryan like that. To bend him in half over his father's couch. He's heady with the possibility.

His heart seizes with something painfully wanting. Sid is liquid completely, blood pumping only with desire.

"Hey." Ryan's voice reaches him, sifting past the drumming in his ears. Ryan lets go of his knees, shifting so he can reach for Sid's face. His skin is still flushed, face soft with concern. With a palm pressed against Sid's cheek, Ryan's thumb is close enough to his lips Sid could move just slightly and take Ryan's fingers into his mouth.

 _We're not doing that,_ Sid thinks.

"I have an idea," he says instead.

The concern on Ryan's face lifts, brightening with overeager curiosity. Sid swallows hard; he should have expected this.

Sid repositions himself on the couch, shifting both of Ryan's legs together and over one shoulder. Ryan watches in interest, reacting to Sid's touch in halftime, still recovering.

"It's cold." He frowns as Sid slathers lotion between his thighs.

"Keep these together." It sounds like an order. It is an order, Sid realizes, only this time he's the one giving it. Ryan nods and the muscles of his legs bunch under his hands.

"This is weird," Ryan says, but any real complaint is sapped from his voice as he watches Sid line up. "Wait," he adds, sudden and breathless.

Sid freezes. Tension ekes out from his limbs, his muscles, from everywhere but the vice grip in his chest. He tries to imagine how far Earth is from where they are now. How many leaps a pod would need to take to shamefully bring him home.

Ryan only calls down the lights. Setting the mood, apparently.

"Were you worried I was gonna stop you?" He grins mercilessly.

Sid rests his head against Ryan's shins. "You can still tell me to stop." He doesn't want to, but he would, if asked. He'd do anything for Ryan. He's shoved down these feelings for ages, how much harder could it be to not mount the kid he swore to protect.

"I won't." Ryan's eyes are bright in the darkness, gaze sharpening when Sid pushes forward. His cock slides easily between the warmth of Ryan's already slick thighs. Ryan's body jerks in response to the motion ("Hold still," Sid says, voice thick. Ryan grumbles in protest). Sid wills his movements slower as his hips swing back, drawing away from Ryan's muscles that contract and strain around him. He presses forward again and Ryan rolls against the friction. With each thrust his thighs clench around Sid, the motion haphazard and infuriating. There is a desert of body heat between them.

He feels like he's watching it unfold between two different people, watching a hazy transmission of something he shouldn't see. He feels lightheaded.

"Sid." Ryan's breathing comes in frantic gasps, thighs held rigid while the rest of him twists and keens. His head tilts back, mouth open, overwhelmed by the sensation.

Not so weird now, Sid thinks, wants to say, but the pressure of Ryan squeezing around his cock strangles him completely.

His grip on Ryan's legs is tight enough to bruise. He'll feel guilty about that later. For now it's just Ryan's voice, thick with desire. And loud, he's getting too loud. Just because his father might be on a distant planet, the ship is still fiilled beyond its usual occupancy. Ears are everywhere.

"Cover your mouth," Sid grits through clenched teeth.

Ryan only halfheartedly presses his knuckles to his lips, whimpers still slipping through his fingers. His thighs shake, hips twitching upward for better purchase, to continue the sensation Sid's not sure he could stop. His whole body is a mess of overworked nerves, skin slick with sweat and worse. Ryan's hard again, cock drooling on his stomach, and Sid can't see anything else, can't hear anything else but Ryan's barely concealed moans. They drag something guttural from his own throat, while Sid falls out of rhythm. He can apologize for all of this later, slamming into his thighs with this base purpose.

Ryan takes himself in his hand, coming for second time with a few brilliant strokes.

No, he thinks. He won't apologize for any of it.

Sid bows his head as orgasm shakes through him, blindingly white. There's no battle analogy to make. Nothing in war compares to this.

The space around them blearily comes back into focus as Sid slides Ryan's legs off his shoulder. Ryan watches him move, laid out and blinking slowly. The knot at the pit of Sid's stomach has loosened, but his chest is tight with a warm swell of affection. He feels heavy to his bones.

Ryan breaks the look, awkwardly lifting himself on his elbows, one at a time.

"We can flip a couple of these cushions over, maybe," he says, assessing the damage. It's not the most romantic of pillow talk. 

Sid follows his gaze.

"No, we can't. They're affixed to the furniture." Sid doesn't need to check to know this. Everything has to be secured for leaps. Space has its drawbacks.

"I'll figure something out." Ryan moves towards him, coaxing Sid close again. He tries to settle them back over the couch, mess or not, and Sid resists. He tries to lay over Ryan as lightly as possible, arms twisted against the couch to support most of his bodyweight.

"Can you lie down like a normal person?" he laughs.

"No," Sid says. "I'm heavy."

"You're fine." Ryan tugs their bodies together, a soft exhale when Sid rests his full weight over him. ("I told you," he argues.) "You're fine," Ryan says again, softer, and takes Sid's lower lip between his teeth.


End file.
